


The Passage of Time

by Allowisp



Category: AdventureQuest, DragonFable
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Asexuality Spectrum, Depression, Grey-A Artix, Grey-Asexual Character, Grey-aromantic character, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allowisp/pseuds/Allowisp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are enemies that can't be beat. There are people who can't be saved. </p><p>Warlic fights dragons and depression, and Artix does everything he can to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Passage of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time: this one is old. About 5 years old plus recent editing. It is also something that, although it currently ends at a satisfactory pause point, I will not finish anytime soon. That said, it's decent. I'm proud of it.  
> I’m publishing TPoT because I can’t find anything like it online to read, and I feel obligated, since if I’m still looking for it other people must be, too. That, and I have AQ and DF on the brain because of AE's recent Kickstarter.
> 
> In this story, I mess liberally with the timeline of games I used to play obsessively, and which I knew everything about at that time. You don’t need to know anything about Artix Entertainment’s work to understand what I’m doing here, but it helps. For those of you who do, it should become obvious that I am hijacking the games’ timeline at the point directly after AdventureQuest’s original Fire War. 
> 
> I want to make it clear that I wrote it with the highest respect for the persons involved in Artix Entertainment, and with no connection intended between the characters in game continuity and the real people who go by the same tags as online handles and nicknames.
> 
> ((Additional, more technical notes: I make much here of little in-game inconsistencies such as Cysero being present in Falconreach but not Battleon. This was actually the result of Cysero the developer working primarily on DragonFable rather than AdventureQuest and only later being integrated as a character into AQ’s continuity. However, in this story I interpret it as Cysero the mad weaponsmith actually disappearing from Lore in the time between games, and Warlic as Cysero’s best friend is naturally affected by this. I want to emphasize that I’m not putting words in any of the developers’ mouths. I’m simply utilizing the incremental construction of their games to fuel a form of emergent storytelling.))

**The Passage of Time**

 

Warlic lowered his staff. It thudded softly against the charred earth. He used it for support as he turned to face the crowd that had gathered on the edge of the town, cradling his orb with his other arm.

The fire dragon Akriloth lay behind him, dead. He did not need to look again to be sure of that. The people of Battleon apparently did, however, because they would not stop staring even after the cheers had died away. They were whispering, nudging each other, and together they formed one murmuring mass that fully blocked the street. He saw no way to get through that press of bodies to his workshop which looked so invitingly close.

He was panting. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his whole face hot from barely-diverted dragon flame. The smoke stung his eyes. He made his orb levitate for a moment so he could wipe tears from them and see clearly. Individual faces came into focus—Valencia, Yulgar, Aria, some adventurers he knew. Everyone’s expressions revealed them to be troubled, excited, and relieved all at once. Warlic didn’t know how to feel.

Twilly bounced forward out of the general mass as Warlic approached. “Warlic, are you all right?” he chirped. “Do you need me to heal you?”

Warlic found he had to clear his throat before answering. “No. No thank you, Twilly. I sustained no injuries. All of this… it’s just ash.” His voice came out hoarse and tight with control.

Twilly blinked. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Warlic looked away hurriedly and spent an awkward five seconds looking for a way through the crowd. He had just about decided to teleport, mana overload be damned, when Artix suddenly pushed his way through to the front from where he had been conferring with some of the Guardians. He stopped right in front of Warlic, examined him, and frowned. He asked bluntly, “How do you feel?”

Warlic sighed. His friend could always tell when something was not right with him. “I need to get to my workshop,” he said. “Now.”

The paladin reacted immediately. He spun around, yelling for a path to be cleared, and people responded by moving to one side or the other so that a narrow walkway was formed. Artix smiled and thanked each of the people by name as he moved forward with Warlic following. The mage winced as the voices of the crowd closed in around him, coming from all sides. The noise bombarded his aching head. He didn’t notice he had stopped breathing until the press of bodies opened to reveal just Artix, holding open the door to his workshop and waiting for him to come in. He gasped, choked, stumbled, and waved aside Artix’s hands.

The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, and all the noise from outside faded. Warlic sighed again with relief. He managed to drag himself across the room to a chair, where he collapsed against its sturdy wooden frame. He levitated his staff over to its usual resting place against the wall, but when he released his focus it fell with a clatter to the hard floor. He regarded it wearily without trying again until Artix righted it and then took a seat across from Warlic in a second chair.

“So,” asked Artix, “what is it?”

Warlic shifted his orb so that he held it in both hands. He let it rest gently on his lap and stared down into its depths. As always, the shifting hues calmed him, as did its cool, smooth surface. His silver hair fell forward to create a curtain for his face. “He’s getting stronger,” said Warlic, without looking up.

“Who, Akriloth?”

”Yes. Every time he returns from death, he grows stronger.”

“You’d think so many trips to the Realms of Death would be a drag-on him.”

“Artix, please.”

“Sorry.” The paladin fell silent after that, but the upbeat tone of his voice meant that he had caught the smile his pun had drawn out of his friend.

“As I was saying,” Warlic went on, “Akriloth is already too strong an adversary for most of the adventurers.”

“So that’s why you’ve been taking care of him these last few times. You’re trying to keep them from getting hurt.” The sudden softness in his voice made Warlic look up. Artix was watching him with a light, gentle smile, and those thoughtful brown eyes. “That was nice of you, Warlic.”

“I…” Warlic swallowed and suppressed the urge to look back down. The simple feeling of warmth which his friend’s kind gaze kindled within his heart was almost too much for him to bear. It differed so sharply from the constant, creeping melancholy which had, over the last several years, grown until it threatened to smother his very soul… so sharply that it cut. These moments when he felt better brought him as much pain as they did relief, for he knew that they would soon be gone.

“Thank you,” whispered Warlic. Yes, already it was fading. _And yet I must go on._ “Thank you, Artix. Now, where was I?”

“You were saying that Akriloth has become too powerful for most adventurers to handle.”

Warlic nodded. “I don’t think they understand it. He has been growing in power ever since his first reappearance after the war, and every time he dies, he comes back more quickly. It has only been a month since the last time over at the Crossroads. This time, he marched up to Battleon’s front gate. I just don’t know… ah!” He winced as the pain in his head spiked, one hand flying to his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push it away. Eventually it receded back to a dull, throbbing ache. Warlic opened his eyes again.

He found that Artix was watching him worriedly. Artix looked as though he very much wanted to reach out, one hand hovering in the air above the table between them, though frozen there. Artix knew without asking that his friend preferred not to be touched, even if he did not understand the reasons why. Warlic appreciated that.

“I’m all right,” said Warlic with effort, and Artix let his hand fall, though he looked no less concerned. “It… it’s my mana. I was getting to that.”

“Your mana?” Artix sat straight up. “You’re overloading?”

“No, no, nowhere close!” Warlic shook his head at Artix’s reaction and immediately regretted it as his headache intensified. “It’s more than I’m used to, more than I’ve had to do in a long time, but I am nowhere near my limit. Lore is in no danger.” He sighed and glanced down at his orb, which glowed dimly. “I only worry that Akriloth will reincarnate before I am ready to face him again. It’s getting to the point where the mana I build up doesn’t have enough time to drain away.”

“You could ask for help, you know,” Artix pointed out.

“From whom? Galanoth is away. And I know what you’re thinking, Artix, but no matter how many times he dies and comes back to life to combat us, Akriloth is no undead. At this point, only a dragonslayer of Galanoth’s experience would stand a chance against him. My magic is abnormally, unnaturally strong, which is the only thing that puts me on equal ground.”

Artix scowled and leaned back. The great golden axe slung across his back clinked against his armor. “We could send for Galanoth.” The master dragonslayer had departed without warning the day after the War of Fire ended, leaving only a hastily written letter saying that he had something to take care of.

“He didn’t tell anyone where he was headed.”

“We could spread the word about Akriloth,” replied Artix heatedly. “”Once Galanoth hears about this dragon that won’t stay dead, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, he’ll come! Perhaps he’s heard rumors already. We just have to confirm them by sending out riders who speak with the authority of the Guardians, or letters, at least. I know we’ve been trying to play this down as just an aftershock of the war in order to avoid a panic, but I think it’s time to admit that this problem of ours with fire dragons is really just one dragon, Akriloth. If anything can bring Galanoth running, it’ll be that.”

“And if anything’s more likely to lure glory seekers who will just lose their lives—”

“Then we send them back out to search for Galanoth.”

Warlic stared. “That’s an excellent idea.”

The intensity that had come over Artix as he spoke broke when he smiled. “Then it’s settled: I’ll discuss this with the Guardians.” He hesitated, then stood abruptly. “I’ll have to hurry. They don’t hold the Council for long after sunset.”

Warlic stood as well and followed Artix to the door. “It would be best if I came along with you. They will want to hear this from me as well.”

Artix shook his head as he opened the door. “No, I’ll handle this. You need to rest.” With that, he stepped outside.

“I’m all right,” insisted Warlic. He tried to take another step, but of course he stumbled and had to grab the door frame to stay upright.

“No, you’re not,” said Artix. He met the mage’s sparking gaze firmly, yet he did not move to fully block the door. A cool breeze flowed past him, stirring both men’s hair in the night. If Warlic so chose, he could still step through the gap and insist upon going.

Perhaps it was the presence of that option the paladin had given him that made Warlic consent to stay and let Artix deal with the Council. “All right,” he said. “But you must hurry, Artix. Don’t let them delay until tomorrow. I feel that in this, time is of the essence.”

“Of course. I promise I’ll come by first thing in the morning and let you know how it goes.” He turned to go. “Good night, Warlic. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Artix.” Warlic watched his friend walk away up the path which led to the Guardians’ Tower before he closed the door and retired for the night.

 

###

 

Artix went to see Yulgar at his inn in the morning. He had requested and received the approval of the Guardian Council to spread the word about Akriloth. With any luck, that word would reach Galanoth and fetch him back to Battleon before the fire dragon’s next rebirth.

The innkeeper stood behind his establishment’s front desk as usual, supervising what activity had already picked up. Adventurers were gearing up to leave after their night of rest, fastening each others’ equipment and gulping down breakfast the moment one of the wait staff brought it out from the kitchen. Store owners chatted near the front, catching up with their fellows before they opened their shops for the day, and Guardians were just trickling in from the night shift and the dawn patrols. The whole place had an energized, familial atmosphere in which everyone present seemed to know everyone else. It would not be a problem finding people to carry the message.

Artix approached the front desk. “Good morning, Yulgar!”

“A good morning to you, too, Artix.” The innkeeper smiled in welcome. “What can I do for you?”

Artix leaned in close over the desk and motioned for Yulgar to do the same. “Yulgar, I need a message sent out. How many people here are leaving Battleon today?”

Yulgar frowned in thought, eyes sweeping over the patrons of his inn. “Well, no less than usual. There’s that Slayer in the corner, for example, bound for Darkovia, and Blackhawke’s fighters on their quests. There’s the rare item hunters, the travelers… but Artix, what kind of message do you have in mind?”

Artix explained the situation with Akriloth in as much depth as he could, leaving nothing out. He knew the messengers would hear it from Yulgar word-perfect; the innkeeper had a good memory, even by shopkeepers’ standards, honed by years of keeping track of all the people who passed through his inn in Battleon.

When Yulgar had heard everything, he whistled. This was not merely a reaction; a few moments later, one of his assistants came running.

“Find all those who are leaving today,” he told the boy. “Tell them I need to see them before they go. Guardian business.”

“Yessir.” The lad ran off into the crowd.

“Well, that should do it,” said Yulgar to Artix. “I’ll have them ready and on their way before midday.”

“Thanks, Yulgar.” Artix straightened back up to his full height and stretched as he peered around the cozy, well-lit inn. “Say, where’s Warlic? Has he been here today?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Would you let me take a meal to him, then? At this rate, he’ll miss breakfast.”

Yulgar nodded. “Sure thing, Artix. Take whatever you need.”

Artix thanked him and followed his nose to the kitchen.

 

###

 

Artix slipped quietly into Warlic’s shop without a problem, for the mage secured it by some unknown mechanism that could distinguish friend from foe. He carried a modest, box-shaped basket under one arm, filled with fresh baked sweet rolls which the inn’s kitchen staff had thoughtfully covered with a cloth. The steam which escaped through the folds of the cloth carried the aroma of rich cinnamon. Artix took care not to drop this basket as he crossed the empty main room of Warlic’s workshop which served as the shop area and then stepped through a curtained doorway into Warlic’s private quarters.

Warlic had fallen asleep in his day robes again. He lay curled up facing the doorway, eyes closed and breathing evenly. He had not even bothered to crawl under the covers despite the slight chill which always crept into the building at night. Artix hoped that he would not wake up cold.

Artix set the basket on a table and knelt down beside the head of the small, low bed. “Warlic,” he called softly. “Come on, Warlic. Wake up.”

The mage did not even stir.

Artix hesitated. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed Warlic’s shoulder with his fingertips. “Warlic…”

That got a response. Warlic drew in a deep, whooshing breath, and his eyes fluttered open, dilated and distant, still halfway lost within the fog of dreams. They focused quickly, however, and picked out the figure of Artix kneeling beside the place where he rested. He blinked in surprise and seemed to register the paladin’s hand on his shoulder.

Artix immediately drew back his hand, not looking away from Warlic’s amethyst eyes. They betrayed something sad… something resigned. It was the same pain that Warlic struggled to hide at those times when their hands touched by mistake, or when Artix simply tried to lift his friend’s spirits. Yes, he would relax and smile, but that look would bleed through when his guard dropped, and Artix could tell he was hurting. He hoped that one day, Warlic would speak of it.

Artix knew that though Warlic appeared ageless, he was in fact several thousand years old. Warlic spoke very seldom about his past, though he had once told Artix that Falconreach and Battleon (one and the same, in the end) were the only places which he had ever thought of as home. They had held that conversation in the forest late one evening, searching together for herbs in the summer before Falconreach fell. That had been a brighter time, a time when Warlic laughed more. It had felt then as though they had all the time in the world.

Now their days were not so safe. They had always known war, true enough, but the companion heroes and legends of Lore had determinedly survived every one. Then the Dragonlord of Falconreach died, along with the twin dragons that could have brought about either eternal peace or ruin. Without them, with Fate dead, the world was left to save itself or burn. There would be no escape if they failed.

“Artix?” Warlic uncurled and managed to prop himself up on one arm. “What…?”

Artix smiled brightly and gestured behind himself to the basket he had brought. “You’re missing breakfast.”

“Oh.” Warlic covered a yawn. “Thank you.” With effort, he sat up all the way and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes.

“I’ve already spoken with Yulgar,” Artix said before Warlic could ask. “The message will be on the move by midday.”

Warlic nodded gratefully and swung his legs around to the side of the bed. He stood up as Artix rose as well and moved back to give him room. It seemed Warlic had at least removed his shoes before falling into bed the night before, for he stepped into them then. He made his way over to his small mirror and washbasin in the corner, where he splashed water on his face, dried it with a towel, and then quickly combed the tangles from his silver hair. Artix smiled as he watched and waited patiently. _Typical Warlic_ , he thought. Clean and orderly to a fault.

The two sat down at the small table in Warlic’s private chambers and set to work on the rolls Artix had brought. Artix was content to pick at one, for the good folk who worked the kitchen at Yulgar’s inn knew him well, and they wouldn’t let him out the door until he had a taste of everything on the early morning menu. Warlic, on the other hand, set to the meal seriously. Artix stared openly as the mage devoured roll after roll. Normally, _he_ was the one with the big appetite.

“Warlic, when did you last eat?” he asked.

Warlic finally sat back with a contented sigh after wiping his fingers clean of cinnamon. He appeared to ponder the question. “I think I had lunch yesterday.”

“You _think?_ ”

“It could have been two days ago.”

Artix shook his had in disbelief. He knew Warlic could get wrapped up in his projects sometimes and let a meal or two pass him by, but this was ridiculous. And he fought dragons in this state.

Warlic looked away as he pushed back his chair and stood up again. “I know what you’re thinking, Artix. It’s just that… I haven’t felt hungry.” He retrieved his orb from its stand and turned back toward Artix. He checked that Artix was done eating as well, and then he waved his hand. The basket disappeared.

 _Probably sent what was left over back to Yulgar’s,_ Artix thought, getting to his feet. He stretched languidly, assessing the condition of his muscles, and found that they were taut with energy. He smiled, considering how he would spend it.

He had done more than enough training lately with his great axe, working battle forms in the early morning as dawn broke over the horizon and then again before he went to sleep at night, no matter the hour. In the growing or the fading light, his swings sung out in the air, powerful cleaves which left brilliant, short-lived arcs of elemental light in their paths. If the time came to fight… if Warlic finally allowed him to help in combating the dragon… he would be ready.

For one day, however, he might take a break. Perhaps a run with Daimyo, and then a game of wrestling or fetch atop his dog’s favorite hill, the one where youngling elementals played and where spirits sometimes came to tease the valiant canine, laughing at the way he barked and spun… and Artix would laugh, too…

“You haven’t changed,” said Warlic.

Artix blinked. “What?”

The blue mage stood near the chamber’s curtained doorway, watching Artix with his timeless eyes. “It’s so easy to forget you’re growing older, Artix,” he murmured.

“Hey, now,” protested Artix. “I’m not _that_ old.”

“No, of course not.” Warlic smiled as Artix walked toward him in the half-light. “What I mean to say is… In so many ways, you are still that young man I first met all those years ago, absorbed in your training within the lady Celestia’s sanctum.” The blue mage closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. “That was when I visited for a talk with her and some tea, as I would do once in a while, every few hundred years. She invited me in, and we sat by a window, looking out into her garden. From there, I could see the grove’s trees in a line, and a figure whirling beside them, swinging a great axe.”

“And how did I look? Not too clumsy, I hope.”

“You were striking—then, as now.” Warlic smiled. His voice grew soft but did not falter. “The summer sun.”

Artix found that his heart was beating faster. He fought the urge to reach out. _Reach out… and what?_ He did not know. He fought it down. “Warlic…”

“I beheld a young man.” Warlic’s eyes were far away. “Something in the sight of him… compelled me. Such determination, even then. ‘Who is that?’ I asked Celestia. She smiled and set down her cup of tea.

“‘His name is Artix,’ she answered, turning her face towards the window. ‘I found him near dead in Doomwood after the Green Mist you warned me of destroyed everyone and everything he had ever known. Now he trains to become a warrior of light—a paladin, as they are called. And I am helping him.’

“Something in me sank to hear this, but still I could not take my eyes off you. ‘I hope that vengeance does not destroy him.’ It was all I could say.

“‘That has never been what drives him,” she told me, with another of her smiles. “It should be, but it is not. I know you do not believe me, but you will understand once you have met him.’ She rose and went to the back door. I followed her through it out into the grass. ‘Artix!’ she called. You paused in your practice and turned your head—no, enough.”

Abruptly, Warlic broke off his remembrances and looked away. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I am… blessed… with a very good memory.” He kept his eyes averted, turned away toward the shadows. As though he did not expect understanding. As though he was prepared to wait there in his silence until Artix left him alone with it.

Artix realized he could not fight the urge anymore. He still did not dare to so much as take Warlic’s hand, but there was more than one way to reach out. He stepped in as close to the mage as he could without brushing his skin or his robes, so that the barest film of air separated their two bodies. He inhaled deeply—Warlic smelled of something soft and almost sweet, like lavender after a cool night’s rain—and breathed warm air onto his pale face as he spoke. “You reminded me of stars.”

Warlic’s eyes snapped back onto the paladin’s. He drew in a small, sharp gasp, and Artix felt the rush of air on his own lips, so small was the distance that separated them.

“I always found my way by them in Doomwood. I wanted to learn every constellation, and their stories, all the long cycles they had lived. But there were so many, and every one kept some secrets. So I made do with what I could, and I was happy.” Artix swallowed. “They were all I could see through the Green Mist.”

“Artix…”

“You’re not the only one who remembers, Warlic. That’s all I’m trying to say. Knowing you all these years has meant a great deal to me, and I want you to know that I remember… everything.”

Artix watched Warlic as the mage drew shaky breaths. Those amethyst eyes were fixed on his, and he doubted he could have looked away if he had wanted to. They were brimming over with something beautiful which had replaced their former anguish. He could have stood there forever, drinking in the sight, sharing breaths with a man who smelled like rain over faraway galaxies.

But he could see the pain returning. If anything, it was sharper than before, more acute for the short spell of relief. Artix forced himself to step back and felt a pang as Warlic swayed slightly forward—as though wishing to stay close—before catching himself. The blue mage brought a hand to his forehead and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s all right.” Artix found the edge of the curtain hanging in the doorway between Warlic’s private quarters and the room where he kept his shop and tugged it back. “Come on. I’ll help you set up today.”

 

###

 

Aria, tender of Battleon’s pet shop, listened with pride to the cries of the waking animals all around her. They rose from their beds on paws, wings, and claws, and blinked sleepily in the early morning light. A few found it in themselves to trundle out to the yard, where Aria had set their breakfast waiting.

She had raised most of her charges from eggs, so to speak, and seen them grow up from newborns. Others had come to her injured and exhausted, and remained after she nursed them back to health. They were her family—the furry part of it, anyway—and caring for them was her passion.

Aria felt a tug on her pants leg and smiled. She knelt down and petted the small, feisty, armored dog at her feet, rubbing his ears as his tail wagged excitedly. This was Daimyo, Artix’s canine best friend, who would often come by and spend time around her shop, playing games with all his friends among her varied pack of wildlife. Sometimes he would even stay too late and fall down in a pile with her other tired critters, and she would let him stay the night. She would also look after him in times when his master was away or busy, or else just around town and doing things the dog might find boring.

Daimyo hopped away and barked. He dropped his chest to the floor and wriggled his haunches in the air, barking again at her playfully.

“Oh, all right.” Aria felt around her pockets for a toy. “You big puppy, you.” She produced a leather ball and tossed it over the dog’s head. He scampered to get it, leaping deftly over a still-slumbering bear cub and salamander, and clenched his jaws around it just as a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” called Aria, and the door swung open to reveal the paladin Artix standing in the doorway.

Daimyo changed course midrun and charged toward his master, who laughed and knelt to meet him. The dog jumped up, dropped the ball, and started licking his face.

“Hey!” protested Artix, grinning. He reached down and stole the ball Daimyo had dropped. He waved it before the dog’s paws and then whirled, throwing it out into the yard. Daimyo shoved past him and raced across the grass after it.

Daimyo snatched the ball up in his jaws, along with a clump of grass, clover, and flowers. He brought the lot back proudly to Artix and dropped it at his feet. A few brightly colored flowers stayed stuck to his grinning lips. His light pink tongue darted out to lick his nose as he looked up at Artix expectantly, panting.

“You look ridiculous,” said Artix.

“Arf!”

Aria giggled. _A boy and his dog._ The sight of those two staring at each other—the tall, armored paladin and his fluffball puppy—was at once the most hilarious and the most heartwarming thing she had seen in a good, long while.

“Thanks for looking after him, Aria,” said Artix. He picked the ball up and dusted off the grass as best he could before handing it back to the red-haired young shopkeeper.

“Anytime, Artix.”

Daimyo yipped. He fluffed out his fur and shook himself, then went to scratch at his ear, forgetting that he still wore his fitted golden canine armor. His back paw scraped uselessly at the metal before finally he whuffed in annoyance and dismissed the armor. His rich coat of tan fur fell free as the rigid harness disappeared, and he rolled happily in the grass.

Yulgar had once explained to Aria why and how adventurers could switch their armor and weaponry instantly in the heat of battle. It was no special enchantment wrought on the part of the blacksmith or by a mage afterward, but rather a mundane and natural care in working the shape of the metal. In the hands of a master craftsman, all materials were alive, and the finished product wrought of them would be sensitive to its wearer’s will, able to be dismissed or called with a thought, or with a wish.

Artix lifted his eyes from his dog and craned his head back to look up at the clear, blue sky. The sun washed over his face as he rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes, and sighed in simple contentment. His own heavy plate armor faded in the space of that breath, leaving him instead in simple brown trousers and a white silken shirt embroidered in gold with designs like the sun. His greaves were replaced by broken-in, practical boots, and his great axe by a small yellow traveling pack suitable for a day roaming the plains.

The innocence in this man still surprised Aria. She knew he was not naïve—no, not by a long shot—but it was impossible to spend any time in his presence and fail to notice his open, honest nature. Many times, as a girl in Falconreach, she had looked to this man she looked up to like a brother, and she expected him to falter. He never did. There was something in him that darkness could touch but never change. It could leave him in a great deal more pain than before, but it could never turn him into a thing of itself.

The worst she had ever seen him was after the blue mage Warlic’s presumed death. He had been... frozen. Uncomprehending. As though the messenger had stolen the ground out from under him, or the sky from overhead. In a complete state of shock. He had stood in the town square, pale, unseeing, and unresponsive, for so long that Twilly had finally stepped forward and put him under out of mercy, lulling him into sleep with his Moglin healing magic. He was carried, still, limp, and unconscious, to a spare bed in Serenity’s inn, where he slept in apparent peace for several hours.

When Artix awoke, however, one could tell he had dreamed. To look into his eyes after that was to glimpse a fully explored realm of sorrow. He could stand without stumbling, but he walked heavily. He could speak without choking, but he kept largely to himself. He drank a great deal of water like another man might drink alcohol, but he did not eat. He did not make a show of his grief, but neither did he hide his tears. At Warlic’s funeral, he spoke as himself, and he made no pretensions.

His honesty went so much deeper than admitting the truth. And that was what impressed Aria the most. In a world so often ruled by deception, one genuine spirit was an anchor she could cling to. She had known betrayal. She had known false hope. But she had also known one person for long enough to be convinced that there was still a chance for goodness in the world.

That man opened his eyes and smiled down at his dog. “What do you say, boy?” asked Artix. “Are you up for an adventure?”

“Arf!” answered Daimyo, leaping up excitedly. He grabbed the hem of one leg of Artix’s trousers in his teeth and started tugging him down the path, eager to go.

“Thanks again, Aria!” Artix managed a wave before Daimyo tugged him fully around. He adjusted his pack and trotted off after his canine, who was already bounding away down the dirt road and checking every possible bush for squirrels.

“Have fun, you two!” called Aria, raising a hand in farewell.

It was a nice day indeed for an adventure, she thought. Perfect blue sky, and just enough wind, the best of a summer which ought to be enjoyed before the chill of autumn finally came. She would have called it a day for fire—that was to say, a day for celebration like in the festivals of yore, in which the squares were filled with bonfires of sun-bleached timber around which the people danced and the wildest stories were told—had not fire come to hold such an ominous meaning for the people of Battleon of late. She was glad, at least, that Artix—he and his silly dog—had taken it into their heads to enjoy it.

 

###

 

Warlic took his time closing up shop that night. He told himself it was because he knew no hurry and it was still too early in the evening for sleep, but that was only half the truth. In all honesty, occupying himself in the main shop area gave him an excuse to watch the door. He doubted that Artix would come to see him that night since he had come once already in the morning. It was too much to hope for. Still, hope kept him finding more tasks that needed doing about his shop, and it kept his thoughts from turning as dark as they might if left entirely to their own devices.

At last, as the sun sank fully from the sky and the blackness of night faded in over Battleon, Warlic felt that hope leave him, to be replaced by a hollow numbness lined in lead. It was a familiar feeling, easy to slip back into. It stole over him by slow degrees, ever creeping, inexorable.

Warlic did not realize which cabinet he stood in front of until he already had it open. By that point, it was too late. His fingers clasped around a dull green orb molded to a stand. He pulled it out and sat down at his table with it, gazing into its unresponsive depths. It had belonged to Cysero. It had belonged to his friend. Warlic began whispering a long string of spells, all of which he had tried before.

First a spell to bring back the dead, for that was Warlic’s worst fear. Next a call for him across the time stream, throwing him a line back to the present, should he be lost. Next a blessing, wherever he might be, and all elements grant that it reach him. Next an entreaty. Then a pleading cry. Soon, all he could muster were strings of unconnected words, questions, half-attempted answers, perhaps not for Cysero at all.

And then there was silence. He sat there clutching the orb.

He had nothing left.

 

###

 

Artix had wanted to find a gift for Warlic on his outing, but he had no luck at all. Daimyo wasn’t exactly a great help on that count, keeping them both running after small animals and sticks, but Artix couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. It had been a beautiful day, and Artix was glad he had finally spent some quality time with his loyal dog, who had apparently been very lonely for his master and best friend of late.

The sun had already set when they returned to Battleon. Rather than wake Aria, Artix took Daimyo around back and helped the canine hop over her fence. He knew she wouldn’t mind.

It had been a long time since he had been out and about in anything but his heavy armor, he reflected as he leaned against the fence, watching Daimyo scurry across the yard and squeeze through the cracked back door into the house. The night’s breeze felt pleasantly cool on his skin, ruffling his loose-fitting clothes. It stirred the lush, long grass in the space around his feet like a small, verdant ocean, making Artix wonder if he hadn’t been trailed home by a baby wind elemental. Such things had certainly happened to him before, but the creatures always left him before he reached Battleon, skittish both of civilization and of other humans.

Curious, but also aware of the unlikelihood of the thought, he let it pass out of his mind. He stepped back from the fence and picked his way toward Warlic’s house. He had meant to check on the mage before the hour grew too late—when had it gotten so dark? where did all the time go?—but supposed he would have to settle for the sight of Warlic peacefully asleep, and turning out the front room light if he’d forgotten.

Artix stepped up to the front door, turned the knob, and eased it smoothly open.

He found the main room empty, and the fire there long died down. Everything sat in its place. Nothing was amiss. A few ever-burning crystals glowed faintly blue under their nighttime shades, and half-darkness folded over their auras like a thin blanket.

Artix ducked his head into Warlic’s chambers. His friend was, indeed, at rest, curled up with his back to the curtained entryway. He had remembered to change this time into a loose tunic and pants spun in silver and gray—the colors of twilight, reflected Artix. The realm of an immortal.

Warlic had, however, neglected to crawl under the covers again. Artix crept forward quietly to see if there was anything about he could throw over him. He found a woolen blanket, woven in faded white, and brought it to Warlic’s bedside. He unfolded it and draped it over the mage’s curled-up body, careful not to touch him all the while. He tugged it over the curve of the mage’s shoulder, and then he drew back. He watched Warlic a moment longer and then left as quietly as he had come, passing through the two doorways and stepping out into the night.

Only after the wooden front door had closed behind Artix did the newly covered figure on the low bed open his eyes. He drew the blanket close around himself into a tight cocoon. He broke what would otherwise have been a sleepless night and lay wrapped in it till morning.

 

###

 

Morning dawned, bright and clear. Another blaze of summer. Wisps of cloud spun over Battleon, doing little to obstruct the sun. Their shadows were almost imperceptible, passing over roofs and roads like swathes of dust. They moved slowly, they were faint, but they unsettled Valencia somehow, like harbingers of a distant fate.

“Rare items!” she called. “Sell, buy, and trade! Tokens and trinkets, whatever you need! Weapons from the tundra, armor from the sea!”

“Do you have my feathers, Valencia?” came a bright voice from above. It was a woman’s, high and sure, with a lilt like a bird’s call.

Valencia looked up. A lithe archer in green, Robina, looked down on her from a tree.

The rare item hunter raised an eyebrow. “Of course I do,” she returned, putting her hands on her hips. “Get yourself down here and see.”

Robina hopped down and landed lightly on the grass. Valencia had set up shop in the center of town today, as usual, but Robina always found a way to travel by the trees, and had likely reached her latest perch by hopping directly from the farmost branches of her forest home near town to the rooftops, and from there to the ancient trees left growing about Battleon’s central crossroads.

Valencia dug in her packs until she found a large roughspun sack. She tossed it to Robina, who loosened its drawstring for a peek inside.

“Oh, these are perfect!” Robina exclaimed. She plunged in her hand and pulled out a fistful of silver feathers. She sifted them through her fingers, grinning, and they slipped one by one back into their sack. “I can’t believe you found so many.”

Valencia smiled and toyed with one gold hoop earring. “I always fill my orders, Robina. And the slipwing nesting grounds are very busy this time of year.”

Robina froze. “You didn’t hurt them, did you?”

“Oh, no. We negotiated. Forcefully.”

Robina sighed. “Valencia...”

“Well, fine. I’ll tell the truth.” Valencia looked at her severely. “You know there are always fledglings who don’t survive their first flight.”

“Oh.” Robin let the last of the feathers fall from her hand. They twittered softly through the sack’s mouth to land among their fellows. “I see.”

“Winds grant these serve your arrows better than they did the slipwings.”

Robina nodded distantly and cinched the drawstring tight. She slung the bag across her shoulder beside her bow and quiver as she turned to go. Then she paused, glancing back at Valencia. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

“Nothing, after the map you gave me last time.” Valencia patted a pack beside her which bulged with wonders from lands far and strange. “Now we’re even, lady archer. So start stealing gold for me again.” She winked and raised a hand in farewell.

Robina smiled back at her. She was never one to stay down long. “All right,” she agreed. “I will, Valencia.”

Robina turned away and scrambled once again up the tree. She leapt from its highest branch to the roof of Yulgar’s inn, limber as a flying squirrel. The last of her Valencia saw was the trailing tip of her green cap before that, too, slipped beneath a curving roof beam.

 _That could have gone better,_ thought Valencia, and sighed. She stretched her arms behind her head and squinted up into the sky. It was perfectly clear, perfectly blue, except those wisps of cloud. One of them trailed across the sun, so like a slipwing’s feather. Valencia could swear its shadow touched her face.

She shaded her eyes and looked away from it, far across the horizon. She saw adventurers setting off through the fields, most of them young and searching for their first monsters. Warriors, mages, clever rogues. Valencia saw one girl with a backpack, oversize and fit to burst, with a small catlike creature riding along on top. A fledgling rare item hunter, Valencia was willing to bet. She’d have to learn to travel light.

The best treasures, after all, were easy to carry, thought Valencia. They lifted you up rather than weighed you down. Like bird’s wings, like feathers, like smiles you brought back to your friends.

She found herself glancing idly about for Robina, and then remembered the archer had already left.

She had brought back a shield for Warlic once, to enchant and set above the Guardian Tower. Too large for any of her packs, it had been crafted out of stone and encrusted with quartzite gems that would magnify any spell of protection’s effect. It had not felt light strapped across her back, but it was easy to carry in other inexplicable ways, easy for her to hold. That was how she had known it was worth carrying the heavy load.

 

###

 

Artix came down to Battleon shortly after noon. He wore his golden battleaxe slung across his back, and his suit of heavy armor. His red cape streamed behind him in the wind that blew through the town on its way across the plains.

“Hey, Artix!” yelled a woman’s voice, as Artix entered Battleon’s square. He turned his head to find Valencia, the violet-haired rare item hunter who dressed in rich jewels and roguish clothes, waving at him across the square. “Come on, over here! Have I got good stuff for _you_ this time around!”

Artix grinned and jogged to meet her. “Valencia!” he exclaimed, and clapped her fondly on the shoulder. “It’s great to see you back!”

Valencia had embarked on her latest journey nigh on a month ago. She must have returned late last night, or very early this morning, to be selling her wares in town today.

Valencia rapped his breastplate jauntily with a fist, producing a metal clang. “You, too, Artix,” she replied. “All suited up, I see.” She lowered her voice. “Now, what’s this I hear about fire dragons?”

“One fire dragon,” corrected Artix. “Akriloth.”

“Shit.” Valencia rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I thought we killed him.”

“We did, actually,” answered Artix. “Multiple times.”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Valencia.

“I wish I knew.” Artix sighed and glanced away, toward Warlic’s house. “That might make this easier.”

Valencia frowned. “I’m still missing something, aren’t I?”

“Every time Akriloth returns from the dead, he grows stronger,” explained Artix. “He’s already too much for the adventurers to face safely. So many were injured that first time…” He hesitated. “Warlic won’t allow anyone else to risk themselves. He has been fighting Akriloth alone. Every time.”

“ _Shit_ ,” echoed Valencia. “Is he all right?”

“No,” admitted Artix. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, look,” said Valencia. She ran her fingers through her hair. “We’ll figure it out. Damned if I know how, but we will, just you wait.” She bent down to her packs. “In the meantime, why don’t you pick something out?” She fiddled with satchels, saddlebags, and pouches, flipped their tops open, and emptied them out. Strange objects glittered in the sunlight, some brighter even than Valencia’s jewelry.

“On the house,” she added. “I’m settling all my debts today. I haven’t forgotten that time you healed me up during the—the—some war or other. Damn, I owe you more debts than I thought.” She rifled through her largest pack. “Ah, _here_ ,” she exclaimed, and came up with a dark glass bottle. Artix squinted at the label on the side.

“Finest vintage in Lowes,” announced Valencia. “We’re not in Lowes, but what the hell. Live a little, reminisce. Wine’s good for that, I hear, and you don’t drink enough.” She winked at Artix. “I’d keep it,” she confided, “but I’m a brandy girl.”

Artix chuckled. “No thanks, Valencia. You know I don’t drink at all.”

“Fine, suit yourself. Just thought I’d try.” She dropped it on the pile. “Next.”

She showed him weapons, fine armor, and jewels. All were items with a story, for his curiosity if not for use. She showed him charms and magic rings, but none were what he sought. With a growing flicker in her eye, Valencia even offered Artix a few love potions, joking—as she indicated the ladies about whose eyes lingered on the largely oblivious paladin—that he must hardly need them.

Finally, Valencia made a flourish with her hand. A silver medallion slipped seemingly from nowhere into her palm, etched with a design like a crown of moons in the night sky. She flipped it, revealing its other face, which bore another design like many suns. Around the borders of both sides were constellations, filigreed links between the night and the day.

“You’re not shopping for yourself, are you?” she asked, as Artix stared at the medallion. As he realized she had been holding it back. Testing him. He shook his head, and Valencia tossed it to him. It flashed once. Artix caught it in his gauntlet.

He held it up before him to examine the faces more closely. _Beautiful._ A pewter chain hung down from it between his fingers in a short loop. “This is perfect,” he murmured. “But Valencia, I can’t just—”

“Take it,” she insisted.

Artix pocketed the medallion. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary.” Valencia smirked. She stood with her hands on her hips and her feet spread wide apart, every inch the rogue and the trader. “It’s just a little gift, Artix,” she told him, “from me to both of you.”

 

###

 

Warlic found himself smiling as he worked. He had woken up warmed from both without and within, and the feeling clung to him through the day. He felt the passage of time like a peaceful wind around his immortality…

… And the plain over which that wind blew was filled with a dawning light.

At some point after noon, Warlic heard the door of his shop open. A hum of noise and music from the town square slipped through before the door was closed again. As Warlic turned to see who had come, a voice he knew well called out his name. “Warlic?”

Artix stood with a hand on the door frame, resplendent in his full plate armor and cape, a soft smile on his lips and his hair falling down around his eyes. His skin held a glow from time spent in the sun, and bits of grass clung to the trailing edge of his cape. His golden battleaxe hung swung across his back, as always, its twin blades inscribed with runes connecting it to elemental Light. The auras of crystal lanterns played across every surface of him as he stepped away from the door. His eyes… held a light all their own.

Warlic caught his breath. “Artix.”

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in ages.” The paladin chuckled and pushed the hair out of his face. “Whatever I’ve done to deserve that look, I think I’ll make a habit of it.”

Warlic realized only then that he was beaming. That, and Artix’s words, surprised him into a laugh. “I only wish I knew, Artix.” He left the scrolls he had been arranging and went to the doorway that led to his private quarters. He glanced back over his shoulder and beckoned the paladin after him. “But you deserve it always.”

Warlic ducked through the curtain, followed closely by Artix. Another glance back, and Warlic saw the other man’s eyes go to his bed in the corner, where he had left the white blanket bundled up beside his pillow.

He thought suddenly of drawing Artix down there. Taking his hand… Laying him out on his back. Climbing on him in the small cot and joining their lips together. Twining fingers in his hair. Crashing down against his chest as his armor faded to nothing, then slipping his shirt over his head. Running fingers down his flanks. Listening to the man’s heartbeat. Then sliding down… And gentle. Be gentle. He has been with no one else. You remember how it was, to be taken rough and screaming. He deserves better. Artix deserves better…

Warlic could think of nothing he wanted more in the world. But something stopped him. Something always stopped him. He pulled himself out of his thoughts.

“Warlic…” That was Artix, behind him. “I have something for you.”

Warlic made to turn. “What is it?” he asked.

“Close your eyes.” Warlic obeyed, and there was some shuffling. “Now hold out your hand, Warlic.”

A cool, flat object was placed in Warlic’s palm. It was smooth, with ridges… circular. Warlic’s brow furrowed. _A coin?_ But the borders felt so intricate… and he felt the links of a chain…

“Well, take a look,” urged Artix. His voice came from Warlic’s front.

Warlic opened his eyes. He peered down at a silver medallion with moons etched onto its face in alternating phases that formed a crown over a horizon. Fine etchings denoted stars, and on the raised border, whole constellations had been marked out over whorls of wind, points plotted in the metal and connected by precise, unbroken lines.

He turned it over. This side bore suns. Their rays streamed down from their arcing pattern in a mirror of the crown of moons. Around this face, too, the constellations spiraled. They were continuous—the same sky.

“Artix…” Warlic struggled to speak. “Why?” he managed, at last. “What is this?”

“Just a promise,” Artix told him. “I know this must be hard on you, Warlic. I just want you to remember you’re not alone.”

“A… I...” Gods, was his hand trembling? Why could he not see?

“Warlic…” Artix hesitated. “That day you came back…”

The day he had returned from the dead. Yes, he remembered. He had gone to Artix where the paladin wept for him far back from the edge of the crowd. Warlic had wiped away his tears and leaned their foreheads together, one hand cradling each side of Artix’s head as he pulled the paladin through the last of his grief. It was the closest they had ever been... except perhaps for yesterday morning, when they had been a hair’s breadth away from a kiss.

“Please…” The paladin’s whisper rose out of all that they had always left unsaid, hushed and charged with what had grown between them over the course of fifteen years. “Please, Warlic, let me…”

Finally Warlic felt the wetness on his cheeks, the fresh tears welling in his eyes. He blinked and brought a hand up, meaning to dash them away, but his fingers met the cool metal of a gauntlet.

The shock of it chased the blur from Warlic’s widened eyes. He saw that Artix had reached out to cup the air around his face, as he pleaded for Warlic to let him…

_Let him what?_

They were frozen together now, two or three fingers intertwined, with a barrier of metal between them. Warlic’s gaze snapped to Artix’s face. The paladin stared back at him, eyes wide and lips parted, afraid but still begging Warlic without words. _Let me._

“Yes,” whispered Warlic. “Touch me, Artix.”

And the barrier between them was only a memory. The coldness of the metal faded, replaced by Artix’s warm hand, his wider palm and bigger bones, clasping, massaging gently… Warlic caught his breath. The _intensity_ in their touch, eternity in mere fleeting moments… He knew he would never again have the strength to pull away.

Artix was the sun that it would burn him to hold close. His irises held shifting flares, and his mortal blood was liquid light. Warlic could feel the end now. He could see the dying of the light. And yet…

“Warlic, in case you didn’t know…” Artix hesitated. His eyes fell to their joined hands then rose again. There was a flush in his cheeks, sure and hopeful as a new day. “I’ve never really been sure what these words mean. I’m not sure why other people say them. But I’m pretty sure they have something to do with how I feel about you, and I want you to know. I love you.”

And something woke within him.

In recent years, in idle moments, he had at times wondered when it was that the silent and smothering fog had begun to descend across his life. He had thought it began in Falconreach, with Xan’s rampage or the Dragonlord’s death, or Cysero’s disappearance and the destruction of the entire town which followed so close upon. Then there had been the nights he stood vigil over the outskirts of the ruined town, keeping the monsters back so his injured friends could sleep, and then recover, then rebuild, while he was left on his own with far too much time to think.

_“Do you mind some company?” Footsteps crunched in the grass behind him. Warlic looked back to find Artix there, wearing his loose shirt and trousers, his feet bare. The paladin smiled sheepishly._

_“Not at all,” said Warlic._

_Artix sat down beside him. “I couldn’t sleep.” A faint breeze stirred his hair and pushed halfheartedly at his sleeves. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the stars as he leaned back on his palms._

_“The Tower still stands, Artix,” said Warlic. “Why not try to rest in your room there?”_

_“Because it feels so empty,” whispered Artix. He sighed and leaned forward again. “Because it’s so far from you. So many dead, and you almost—”_

_“Artix.” Warlic placed his hand over Artix’s in the grass. The paladin froze, staring at him, ever aware of how Warlic ordinarily avoided his touch. There were moments, yes, like last year in the forest, when Warlic had dared to savor the feel of Artix’s hands on his as they passed leaves and grasses between them. But the last time Warlic touched him out of affection alone had been at his own funeral. “Artix, listen to me. I cannot die.”_

_“But you can feel pain.” Artix’s eyes shone in the moonlight. “I saw what they did to you. All of it. You didn’t scream, all because you didn’t want me to try to save you. But I knew, and I couldn’t move.” His hand beneath Warlic’s clenched into a fist, and Warlic felt him trembling. “It took me three hours to break your paralysis spell, and one of them was still taking his time with you. So much blood, Warlic—and the_ sounds _they made—I knew such monsters existed, but not in the forms of men.” He looked away, and the anger in him melted as a tear rolled down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t come here to remind you.” His shoulders shook, and more tears came, faster. “I just thought it was a nice night, and you looked so alone, and I just wanted you to know—”_

_“Artix.” Warlic squeezed his hand. “Artix, please. I’ll never die. Don’t weep for me. It’s over now.” He kept his hand on Artix’s as the paladin’s sobs quieted. “Artix, I never meant for you to have that memory. Let me take it away. You will sleep easier.”_

_Artix stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head fiercely. “No,” he said. “I won’t let you carry this alone. Not Sepulchure’s terrors, not any of it.”_

_“You are kind, Artix,” murmured Warlic. He began to draw his hand away, fingertips trailing over Artix’s knuckles. There he paused, however, letting their fingers overlay one another. He was a fool to linger, but if there was anyone he’d sacrifice more to hold on to through all his endless life… “Thank you.”_

_Artix nodded. The strange intensity that had come over him drained away. He looked tired again. He looked worn. He glanced back behind them, toward the ruins of the town. “I should get back,” he said. “I wish I could sleep, Warlic, but I’m afraid of what I’ll see.”_

_“I know, Artix.” Oh, how he knew. “I will be here.”_

_“Can I stay?” asked Artix. So earnest. How was he not ruined by all he had seen? “Can I just rest next to you? I feel like that will help.”_

_Just tonight, thought Warlic. Just this one night. “Of course.” He pulled the paladin closer by his hand, urging him to lie down by his side. “You are safe, Artix. You are always safe with me.”_

_No,_ thought Warlic now. Whatever plagued him had come before Falconreach. It had crept in on him earlier, before he so much as met Artix. Artix had been the one who thinned the fog, even when it stormed, even when it sucked him down like an undertow. Warlic was the immortal who had forgotten how to feel alive, and all this time, he had been running from his salvation.

 _One thousand years from now,_ Warlic realized, _I will not regret loving him. I will only regret that I held back for so long._ He felt the medallion Artix had given him connect to his spirit through his skin. He understood now. He understood everything. _This is Artix’s great gift to me,_ he thought, _to remind me what it is to fear death. In one thousand years, I will mourn him but love life, because it was love for him that brought life back to me._

“Artix, I love you.” Warlic set aside the medallion and brought his hand up to caress the side of Artix’s face. “I should have said that so long ago.”

Artix leaned into his touch, a soft smile spreading across his lips. Warlic felt as though their flesh were melting together. “It’s all right.” The mortal blood in him bloomed like roses all down his skin. “I knew… time… it’s like nothing to you.”

“No.” Warlic let Artix’s hand go. “Time is everything.” His fingers passed through empty air, touched Artix’s breastplate, slid to his waist. “We are caught up in it.” He reached through the joints in the metal that covered Artix’s hip. “We live too long…” He found the hem of Artix’s shirt, slipped his fingertips underneath. “And we forget…”

“ _Ah._ ” Artix gasped. He threw his head back as Warlic squeezed his hip, fingers massaging the knotted joint, working themselves in deep. “Warlic,” he panted, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Shh.” Warlic kept his other hand cradling Artix’s cheek and jaw. He passed his thumb over the paladin’s lips. “Artix, your armor.”

A quick shift to the curve of Artix’s waist this time, and the metal faded from him all at once. Artix seemed surprised to feel it go, staring at Warlic with wide eyes. His pulse jumped quickly in his throat. “I…”

“Artix.” Warlic pulled just slightly on his jaw. “Kiss me. Touch me. It’s all right.”

Artix’s hands trembled as he cupped Warlic’s face between them. He leaned forward. Their lips touched, and Artix pressed so gently, his lips sweet and clumsy. It was closemouthed, chaste, and shockingly innocent.

When finally they broke it, Warlic stared at Artix in wonder. “So it’s true,” he whispered. “You’ve really never kissed before.”

Breathing shakily, Artix shook his head.

“Why not?” asked Warlic. “The way they all look at you… You could have taken anyone to bed before now.”

Artix leaned against him, his breath coming shallower as Warlic explored his body. “I never understood… It all seemed strange to me, what they wanted.” His voice vibrated through his chest to Warlic, growing huskier in shades. “There seemed… no _point_ … but I had this, this strange thought… with you…” He arched against Warlic as the mage kissed his neck. “ _Ah,_ that’s—” He broke off and moaned deep in his throat. “Whatever you’re _doing_ —”

Warlic pushed him backwards onto the bed. He never knew how they got there. “There is no point,” he said. He leaned over the paladin, put his hands on his shoulders. “We tumble through life like the wind.” He slid one leg between Artix’s and climbed fully on top of him, staring down into a face that was at once to him young and old. “We invent our reasons later.” The air, scalding. Warlic buried his fingers in Artix’s locks and drank a kiss from him, long and deep. He felt Artix’s moan through their tongues, and large hands clutching at his back, loose and unsteady for all their strength. When at last Warlic raised his head, Artix lay gasping and shuddering under him, stroking Warlic’s upper arms as though to reassure him of something.

“W-Warlic…” Artix’s fingers were in Warlic’s hair as the blue mage bent his head to the fabric of Artix’s shirt over his nipple. Warlic wet the spot with his tongue and teased it and sucked, as his fingers wandered under the sides of Artix’s shirt, trailing up his lateral muscles and his ribs, stroking every furrow and ridge. “I don’t… understand. Don’t, don’t let me go, but I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry.” Warlic switched to Artix’s other nipple and rubbed the one he had left with his fingertips. His free hand worked at Artix’s trousers’ waistband, slipping under it and his loincloth. “No more worrying, my dear one. Just fall with me.”

Still Artix struggled to speak. “No, I—I’ve always—had a reason.” He found the words as though the world depended on him saying them.

Warlic’s brow furrowed. He drew his hand up and splayed it against Artix’s abdomen, feeling the fine dusting of hair over hard, firm muscles. “Oh?”

Artix shifted his grip to Warlic’s shoulders, and suddenly he rolled the blue mage over so their positions were reversed, and his weight pressed Warlic into the bed. He gazed downward, lips parted, his hair falling all around his face with those deep brown eyes, kind as Warlic had ever seen them. Yet they also burned with a beautiful intensity, the same passion that would often rise in him and leave Warlic breathless. “You.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you want more of my work, you can visit:  
> [A SITE WRITTEN BY PENGUINS](http://writtenbypenguins.blogspot.com/p/read-anything.html)  
> ... home to a somewhat organized archive.


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